Cumming of Age at Harvard 10
Disclaimer: if you're not a grownup, don't like guys a lot, aren't into gaysex, please go away. This tale is exclusive property of the writer. As in copyright. Call it fiction. Any resemblance to, citations of, or references to real people in this and/or subsequent episodes are purely accidental and imaginary. Excuse or enjoy the purple passages.
It's still November 24, 1956. Our hero is still in the Kirkland House library, recalling the previous holiday season in Mayaland. He, his dad, and his dad's archeologist friend have just arrived in Las Casas. But you faithful readers know all that. And, as you were warned in the preface to episode nine--Stand back, Steve.
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CUMMING OF AGE AT HARVARD. PART TEN.
No big deal. We'd be sharing the room for only one chilly night before heading off to las ruinas. Tile floor, high beamed ceiling, no electricity--just two kerosene lamps. Klaus dumped his valise on the single bed nearest a pair of French doors opening onto the portal and courtyard, Dad took the bed next to it, and I headed for the third one under a small window at the farther end of the room. Then old-hand Klaus took us on a quick orientation tour of the place. Na Balom had once upon a time been headquarters for a sprawling coffee plantation--an impressive sala, a library where the symposium and miscellaneous research was going on, a bright, sunny dining room with a single long table that could seat maybe twenty, and six or seven guest rooms. Trudi Blom, Franz's Swiss wife, was a well-known photographer and her shots of the Lancandon people--descendants of the Maya who lived hard, endangered lives in the likewise endangered selva many roadless miles away--hung everywhere.
Klaus poked me. "There's the grande dame now. Mind your manners." He looked over to the other side of the central courtyard where a stiff-backed, white-haired woman dressed in jodhpurs, boots, and a white shirt had appeared, riding crop in hand, a pair of Borzois at her heels. Wow. Were we in Chiapas or Hollywood? As soon as she'd spotted Klaus, Trudi yoo-hooed, the dogs came bounding over, and we headed across to be introduced. Judging from all the hugging and fast German being spoken, Klaus was a great favorite. Dad knew Trudi from a conference or two, but I was an unknown quantity.
She made no bones about it, the sizing-up process. It only took about five steely seconds, but I must have passed. She shook hands, hard, and in a firm baritone announced, "If you're good enough for Klaus, you're good enough for me. Wilkommen auf Na Balom." And she was off to the stables.
Dad and Klaus looked at each other, then at me. Dad: "Congratulations, old son. She hasn't bitten you yet. But there's still plenty of time." And Klaus added, "I don't know which is better with Trudi--to be given the deep freeze or the big hello. Looks like she might like you. Pero, con cuidado, joven. She can be a wasp."
Fine with me, but at the moment I was starving, and we needed a plan for the rest of the day. Those two decided to scrounge something from the kitchen and head for the library to work until dinnertime. I was after local color, so I headed down to the Zocalo for tortas y cervezitas and a walk around town. Since it was Christmas week, the place was jammed with indios from the mountain villages all around, buying, selling, trading, gossiping away in every language except Spanish or English. Still, it was pretty easy to communicate. Every street had a market of some sort going on, a gringo was still an object of minor curiosity to many, and--hey--pesos are the universal language.
I engaged a couple of indios from Chamula in a friendly haggle, winding up with four biggish cloth shoulder bags covered with spidery embroidery that would make pillow covers or gifts or something. And after a further trudge through the markets and a visit to Santo Domingo, the big church in town, I spotted a dusty shop with a few carved wooden santos on a rickety table out front and a hodge-podge of who-knew-what littering the tall shelves inside. One of the santos, a San Juan Bautista, caught my eye. Nope. Too big to carry around. Several old pots that looked Mayan. Too fragile. A stucco head probably "borrowed" from a temple. Too heavy and too illegal. Then the elderly patrón showed me a handful of tarnished milagros, little metal ex-votos in the form of bodily organs whose owners sought healing. I picked out a few hands and legs and eyes and cocks for souvenirs, and then noticed a beat-up red lacquer box in an alcove behind one of the tin retablos.
When I took it over to the shopkeeper, he looked bewildered for a moment, then shook his head and murmured, "Este cajita? No es posíble, senor. De donde?" I gestured to the shelf and retablo where I'd found it. The old man put on his glasses, took the box, examined it carefully, and without a word came around the counter and gave me a tight abrazo. Then he slipped the cajita into a pocket of my poncho and handed me the packet of milagros I'd chosen. He spoke slowly in halting English: "You found it for yourself, señor. I didn't know it was here nor how it got here. I couldn't have helped you. It's yours now. Take it and take the milagros with it, por favor. A gift. Remember me. Vaya con dios y con mucho cuidado, querido señorito."
Another abrazo and suddenly I was out the door, stunned and bewildered myself. I looked back, but he'd shuttered the shop and vanished. Weird. Weirder. Weirdest. He hadn't even opened the box. And now I was in the crowded cobblestone street, surrounded by many, many short, voluble indios--most of them packing up to head back to their villages for the night. Whoops. What time was it? Scheiss. A lot later than I'd thought, and I'd been given a stern warning before I left. You were punctual for dinner, or you were in Trudi's bad, bad books. I flew back up the hill to Na Balom.
Where Dad and Klaus were tidied up and looking anxiously at their watches, so I splashed at the washbasin and jumped into a fresh shirt and tie and a rumpled jacket (Na Balom dresses, after a fashion, for dinner). We had to be at our places before la patróna showed. Thankfully the guys had already checked out the seating chart and found out where she'd put us, so we were all in our places with bright shining faces when Trudi made her grand entrance, pearls, Borzois and all. She'd put Klaus at her right, Dad at her left, and me next to Klaus. The rest of the table? Folks from the seminar and various other select anthropologists, botanists, and archeologists who happened to be in residence or living in the area.
Well, dinner passed quickly--thick stew, hot tortillas, tons of frijoles and blue hominy and fried plantains, and a flan served by the silent Lacandon girls--and we withdrew to the sala for coffee and then a slide show of Mayan murals recently found at Bonampak. Lots of chatter. I met the grand old man, Franz Blom in his wheelchair and plenty of other guests including a chap from the Peabody Museum back at Mother Harvard. All very fascinating, I guess, but the altitude and the food and the beers I'd had at lunch were taking their toll. Weariness struck. Klaus and Dad were deep in talk with a couple of the archeologists when I bid goodnight, thanked Trudi (she actually gave me a tight smile), and headed for the sack.
Though it's pretty far south in Chiapas, Las Casas is high and cold at night, so I was one happy boy to see that a fire had been laid in the room. All I had to do, after I fumbled around and put a match to one of the kerosene lamps, was light the fire. The chimney drew like a charm and pretty soon the edge of the chill had gone. After I'd stripped for bed (I'd never worn pj's and saw no reason to start now), the memory of the afternoon hit. Where was that little box? Get the poncho. Dig out the box. Get into bed fast. Open the cajita. What treasure lay within?
It took some fiddling to figure out how to get the thing open, with disappointing results. Treasure? A couple of short strands of dirty beads--green and muddy beige with some heavy blackish metal bits--knotted on fiber strings. Plus a dozen narrow bands or strips made of the same fiber, intricately woven with knots at irregular intervals. Different lengths, ranging from six inches to a foot. Different widths, mostly between a half-inch and an inch. Different conditions, some of them stained dark brown and frayed and others a pale color and looking just-woven. That was it. Big deal. Why all the abrazos and mystery? I'd ask Klaus in the morning. I put the box on the night table, turned down the lamp, and crawled under the thick comforter.
Hmm. I was feeling zonked, but not too zonked. That is to say, not too zonked to wank. It'd been a couple of days since I'd spanked the mono. A godam eternity. Old J.T. was begging for action. So I grabbed my dopp-kit, got out the hand lotion, and went right to work.
It was a good, lazy wank at first, with the fire flickering in the room and my hands caressing my lubed-up cock and balls. Knowing that Klaus would be sharing the room a little later made me even harder and got the precum starting to flow, the beat beginning to quicken. I'd loved the way he'd grabbed my neck down at the airstrip. How would those big hands feel if they explored my shoulders? I tried to imagine my hand was Klaus's as it moved over my chest, tickled my abs, followed the treasure trail down into my pubes, and explored my balls. I imagined his eyes looking into mine, his full lips brushing against mine, his face and warm breath on my neck and then under my arms.
Uh-oh. Slow down, pal. Stop. I was almost there already and wanted to make this one last. Dad and Klaus wouldn't be back for a couple of hours at least, and in the last year or two I'd learned a trick to make playtime even more fun. Bring myself right to the edge. Close, close, close, but not quite there yet. Then stop. Tough not to hit the big button and get all the way to heaven. But just stop. Start over, get even closer the next time. Then stop again. And repeat, each time getting almost, almost there. And then, when I absolutely, positively couldn't stand it any more, go all the way. The reward of patient work? Bam bam bam. An orgasm of colossal proportions. Try it. You'll like it. So I started to work the rock-hard J.T. a little harder.
Now I thought I could feel the weight of his substantial body pressing against mine, Klaus's weight and pressure, pushing me further into the mattress while I raised my hips to meet his, now grinding against mine. I needed to clasp his body to me while he bucked his cock into mine. I needed to call his name. I did. And managed the impossible. Stop. Oh, man. It was tough. But I did. And then had a strange idea.
I felt over the night table for the cajita and grabbed one of the fiber strips, a fairly short one. My hands were greasy from the lotion, but there was enough light from the fire to see what I was doing. For whatever reason--I sure wasn't thinking this one through--I tied the strip around the base of my stiff dick and around my ball-sac, knotting it pretty tight. Felt warm and good. J.T. loved it. He just got bigger and stiffer, with veins he never knew he had popping out all over the fat shaft. Hmm. What have we just invented here?
But now, back to work with renewed vigor. Get back here, Klaus. I need to feel your stiff dick quickening into hot life against me. I need to feel my balls tightening up while you thrust and thrust against me. I need to know what a real man can do to and for me. I need to feel your cock everywhere on me. I need and need bad to feel your hot load on me. I need to shoot my own wad of hot cum. I need to, I have to, and now there was no more stopping.
I was losing it. Those hoarse groans were mine, coming from deep inside as I pounded harder and harder. That fiber strip got ever tighter, my ball-sac closer, my cock harder and thicker and longer. No need for lotion. The precum was flowing out of me, my cock slippery, my hands and belly wet. The room disappeared. My body was catching fire, a radiant beam of desire. I needed only one thing and it was cumming, oh it was cumming, oh man yes it was cumming. My hips bucked hard and then harder. The big payoff started tingling and burning in my cockhead, in my balls, in my asshole, down my legs, into my feet, up through my stomach, my chest, my neck.
Flame. Jesus. Klaus. Please. Do it. Take me. Fuck me. Yeah Klaus. Fuck yeah man. Now. Hard. Fast. Yeah. Now now now. Please please NOW. And I was shooting and bucking and panting fast and hard like an animal. Hot cumshots hit my face, my chest, my abs, ran down my cock, coated my hands as I rubbed the cum into my balls and all over my body, glistening with sweat and cum in the firelight. Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Oh wow. Whew. And slowly I became me again, still panting but not as fast, still twitching with aftershocks of a massive climax, still wanting a real Klaus instead of a phantom. I think.
I think. Do I want him to take me? I don't think. What's happening here? I've been attracted to guys before, sure, mostly kids my age, but like this? Nope. Never. Not real. Just some sick-o, fag-o, porno-fantasy. Old Klaus is one straight guy. Like me. Mostly straight. Basically straight. He's married, for God's sake. Two kids. Just like Dad. I dunno. Just feeling languid and tired. Usual jacked-out let-down. Post coitum and all that shit. Screw it. Grab a sweat-sock from off the floor and wipe yourself down. Can't mess up Trudi's sheets. Anything else? Oh, yeah. Untie the cock-cord. Drop same on night table. Pull up covers. Class-A jack-off. Definitely not queer. Sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Until a sudden rattle penetrated the deep and dreamless. Half awake. Felt very late. The wind had come up, knocking a branch against the window next to the bed, rattling palm fronds in the courtyard beyond the portal. Somebody at dinner said a storm was on its way. The fire hadn't quite expired, just faintly flickered where someone had put another hunk of wood on the coals. Someone? Dad and Klaus must be back.
I glanced at Dad's bed next to mine. Nope. Nobody home. They must have gone out again. I heard raindrops hitting the window, saw a dim flash, heard--much later--distant thunder. Wait a minute. Heard something else, too. A quiet rustling sound, slow, soft, and repetitive. I squinted across the room toward the French doors and Klaus's bed. A lantern on the portal, the flicker of the fire gave a little light. Looked like Klaus had made it to bed.
Somebody was in his bed, anyway, moving slowly and regularly under the bed-clothes. I looked closer. Quietly. Whoa. Whoooa. Two guys. Klaus and Dad were both back. In the room. In Klaus's bed. Together. On top of each other. Making the beast with two backs. Very, very quietly. So as not to disturb the sleeping kid in the far bed.
Oh, shit. Klaus a pansy? Dad a fag?
Was the kid horrified to realize that blonde god Klaus was fucking his father--his own godam father, for Chrissake? With Daddy's little boy in the same room? Oh, sure. Shit, yes. Scandalized. Outraged. Incredulous. Revolted.
But even more the kid was excited. Really, big-time excited. Turned on like I'd never been in real life. And J.T. had leapt to attention. What kind of queer, fairy, faggot pervert was I? Couldn't answer that one. How many kinds are there? Maybe I should just make a loud remark: "Umm, hey guys. Trying to get some sleep over here." Or maybe make it a threesome. But no. I knew how to handle this interesting development. Listen up. Try to get a good look. Maybe get a free lesson in How Real Men Make Love.
Distant flash. More rain. Soft rumble. Storm approaching. The guys must have been pretty desperate to risk screwing in the room with me in it, though Dad knows full well how hard I am to wake up. Either they needed it super bad. Or. Naw. Klaus couldn't have wanted me to know what was going on. Could he? Well, they sure couldn't prevent Sonny's first-time, first-hand observation of man-love from happening now. And, boy, was it ever beginning to happen.
At first I'd noticed the slow-motion under the covers, a rhythmic back-and-forth joggling. Klaus seemed to be on top. Then the comforter slid off the bed and just a sheet covered the two men, still in gentle, silent movement. Closer thunder now and, corny as it sounds, the electricity in the air hooked up with the electricity in the room. I was all eyes and ears, stark awake and scarcely breathing. Not so with the bodies on the bed, where the breathing was getting heavier as each slow minute passed.
Their grinding grew more intense. Klaus cradled Dad's head in his forearms while Dad's arms locked around Klaus's lower back, his knees holding up the sheet over their lower bodies as Klaus started more purposeful movements. It wasn't long before the sheet was on the floor with the comforter, but neither man seemed to care. Two naked guys in rut. An eager-eyed, stiff-dicked audience. Cue the firelight. Showtime.
A low, breathy whisper: "Bitte, Klaus. Bitte." Klaus nodded and readjusted his position on Dad, moving down slightly. Dad tilted his bottom, brought his legs up, locking them around Klaus's waist. The top-man kept thrusting gently against Dad, but now, I figured, not against Dad's stomach and dick, but getting his cock--invisible, dammit--against Dad's balls and perineum and teasing his asshole.
"Danke. Danke. Danke, Klauschen." The whisper more guttural now. As Klaus thrust forward between Dad's asscheeks, Dad thrust his ass upward, rubbing his cock against Klaus's stomach and giving Klaus better access to his hole. The men continued rocking slowly together, sweat beginning to gleam on their bodies in the firelight. A brilliant flash and less distant thunder. Neither man gave signs of hearing. My hand was on my cock, sliding lightly up and down in time with the bodies' unhurried rocking on the bed.
How long could they go? I'd have shot long ago if I were in Dad's place, pinned under the will and movement of Klaus's growing desire. Dad took his arms from Klaus's back, pulled Klaus's face close to his. I heard panting and urgent whispers. Dad ground his body, hard and repeatedly, against his lover. Klaus continued the slow, implacable rocking. More urgent whispers and Dad's legs fell to either side of Klaus. "Bitte. Bitte. Klauschen. Liebchen. Bitte." Klaus still silent, rocking. I heard a low sob beneath pleading whispers.
Klaus wasn't moved. The rocking continued as Dad shoved his ass higher and higher, begging for the cock that kept knocking at his pleasure-portal. Dad stifled sobs accelerated as Klaus maintained the relentless thrusting. My hand and dick were covered in precum as I stroked my bursting cock. I was with Dad. How long could Klaus tease him? And me? I turned onto my back, imitating Dad's ass thrusts, shoving my hips upwards, begging for my own relief.
A terrific flash and thunderclap lit up the room and its three men, engrossed in our fuck-task. I'd become one with the men on the other bed, moving with them, wanting what they wanted, breathing coarsely with them, and, like Dad, needing whatever Klaus was tormenting us with. The lightning was a signal, and as the thunder rolled around us, in a single movement Klaus pushed Dad's legs back hard against his chest, pulled Dad's ass upwards, and with one sharp, silent thrust, buried his cock in Dad's ass. They both gasped, loud even in the dying thunder, but both seemed well beyond caring about the kid.
The rain poured down now, a tropical squall, and as if in response, the fucking on the bed started in real earnest. Klaus kept a slow pace at first, taking long calculated strokes into Dad's asshole, drawing his cock all the way out at each stroke with Dad pushing into every stroke. Dad's voice, a whisper no more, crooned, "Ja. Ja. Ja. Ja. Ja," with each deliberate thrust. As Klaus began to pick up speed and power, the crooning became more urgent: "Ja. Klaus. Ja. Bitte. Bitte. Ungh. Lieber. Klaus. Ungh. Gott. Gott. Ungh. Mehr. Mehr."
Lost in a world of their own, oblivious to thunder, rain, me, the room, the men fucked steadily, fucked seriously, fucked skillfully. I caught the mood. No more kid-stuff. This was fucking. The real thing. I picked my cum-soaked sock from the floor, slipped it over my engorged cock, and rolled over onto my stomach--thrusting cock against mattress in time with Klaus's solid thrusts into my father.
I listened hard and mimicked the rhythm: quick, short thrust--hard, long thrust; quick--hard; quick--hard; quick--hard. Klaus was picking up the beat. So was I. Klaus shoved Dad further up on the bed, tossed Dad's legs over his shoulders, pushed a couple of pillows under his ass, and began slamming into him, quick--hard, quick--hard. Dad pulled his arms back to hang onto the bedposts, abandoning himself to Klaus's relentless slams. Another extended lightning flash: in the blue-white glare I could see the sweat streaming down Klaus as he worked, Dad's head lolling against the headboard, eyes closed, mouth slack. I kept hammering away at the mattress, keeping up with Klaus's quickening pace--shocked and astonished to know that this was what man-fucking was all about.
A violent hailstorm crashed outside, sudden, drowning out the noise our beds were making, the fuck-moans coming from the other bed. Klaus's thrust-pattern meant nothing now. He'd--they'd--vanished. Just me. Alone. Deaf. Blind. To everything except the hard, mechanical, again-and-again fuck-slam. Past caring what I was or where I was. Pulled up in the bed now, shoving my chest tight against the headboard, clutching onto the bedposts with both hands while my lower body kept up the involuntary slamming of its animal existence. Sweat poured from my hair, down my face, gluing my cheek and chest to the headboard. Me? A fuck-machine, cock a piston, brain a mass of jelly. No more mind. No more "me." A fucker fucking hard, lost to anything but the fuck-imperative. A broken voice. Begging. For what? Consummation? Completion? How could it know?
It took no pleasure from fucking, had no sense of any approaching climax, didn't fuck hopefully. All it could do was go on with the slamfucking, banging cock into bed, bed into wall. hammering and pleading under the shout of the hailstorm. Weeping now and near exhaustion but unable to slacken its pace or diminish the violence of its slamfucks. Its eyes sightless, unfocused, then clenched shut, then wide and staring when the long burst of white light flooded the room with room-rocking thunderclap. Blue fire danced from the metal bedsteads. It locked eyes with another man-shape pounding and staring from another bed.
With time suspended in the lightning light it caught its inhuman image reflected in the stupid gaze of the other. The other begged and pleaded like itself--mindless and helpless not to fuck. That mutual slack gaze of recognition made the two--itself and the other--for an instant a single demonic thing bound together by the force that ripped souls from exhausted bodies.
Then darkness and the uproar of the hail. A final agonized fuckthrust. A burst of crimson light behind clenched eyelids. A shatter of sound. Its guts boiling out of its cock in a relentless, endless flood. Then nothing at all.
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